


Bittersweet Christmas

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Christmas, M/M, Self-Harm, Teenlock, teen-lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 13:05:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was for omfgcate's fic exchange on tumblr back in December. It was written for tumblr user onenationundercolfer.<br/>It's not wonderfully written or long, but eh, I 'm kinda proud of it (or at least finishing it)<br/>Word Count: 706</p>
<p>***WARNING*** there is self harm in this, so if you feel you will be triggered, don't read it; it's not worth it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bittersweet Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> this was the prompt that I had to write for:  
> I’d prefer to read Sherlock AU, Sherlock is in despair at spending Christmas away from John, and takes up some destructive habits., Awkward Christmas party

Sherlock was lonely on Christmas Eve. Lonely, but not necessarily alone. He was surrounded by his “friends”, sure, but not the friend he wanted. John wasn’t there.

John, Mycroft, and his mother has convinced him to plan a party at the Holmes estate.

He had complied, but it was really John who planned it; sending out invitations, making and putting up decorations.

Sherlock wasn’t the least bit excited for the party, but was excited that at least John would be there with him.

Or, at least, he had been expecting John to be there. He surveyed the area again: Molly Hooper, Anderson, Sally Donovan, Mycroft: attached at the hip to Lestrade, and several other people from his and John’s year.

But no John.

***

Admittedly, Sherlock could have been a better party host, but he had consented to sulking in the corner, eyes staring at the door, waiting for John.

Eventually, everyone had left. This left the curly haired teen to begrudgingly get up and halfheartedly pick up stray cups, throwing them away, not bothering to do anything else.

He climbed up the stairs to his room, and paced around, muttering “Bored” under his breath.

He made his way to the bathroom. Something metal glinted in the edge of his vision, and he walked towards the object, picking it up.

A razor.

He experimentally slid the dull edge of it across his palm, reveling in the cold feeling of it. He spun it around so that the sharp edge was facing his wrist. Sherlock held it a few inches above his arm, slashing it in the air before he lowered the cold metal square and deliberately sliced his skin. He let out a shaky breath and dropped the razor, mesmerized by the blood that beaded up on the line he drew.

Sherlock bent down to retrieve the razor; standing up and running it under the tap water. He slid it against his wrist again and again. It was almost his way of proving to himself that he could feel, contrary to popular belief; even if it was just pain he was proving he could feel. And the pain of being left alone. He looked over at the clock as it chimed 12 o’clock.

“Happy Christmas to me.” he murmured, cutting one last line across his wrist.

***

He woke in the morning with a sense of dread. He groggily got up and threw on a shirt and jeans; walking downstairs to make himself a cuppa for breakfast.

He was surprised to see John there, seated, with two cups of tea in front of him.

“Morning Sherlock. Happy Christmas.” John smiled at him, “I made you a cuppa.” He held it out to Sherlock and he took it from him, looking wary.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and peered over his cup at John. “What are you doing here?”

John looked only slightly confused. “Didn’t you get my text?”

“Text?” he questioned reaching into his pocket, and turning on his phone, he had neglected to check it last night. Sure enough there was a text:

_Dad dragged me and Harry to Nana Watson’s. Won’t make the party. Will be over in the morning. ___

Sherlock shut off the phone, his mouth forming and “o”. He felt foolish; of course John wouldn’t have left him alone. He subconsciously hid his wrist, holding his arms behind his back.

John reached for his wrist and dragged him to the front room, “C’mon, let’s open presents.” he said excitedly with a giddy smile.

Sherlock smiled at John’s antics, but slipped his wrist out of John’s grip. He knew John could feel the cuts under his fingers, but didn’t question why he didn’t bring it up.

He followed John to the Christmas tree, and sat next to him in front of the presents.

John turned to face him, looking serious. “I’m not going to pretend to know what led you to, well, cut, but I want you to know that you can talk to me, and, er, well, I guess I also wanted to say that, well.” John stopped babbling to lean in and kiss Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes widened before shutting close, he smiled and reciprocated before pulling away and whispering, “Happy Christmas John.”


End file.
